


An “Angel” for “X-Mess”

by beetle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AC/DC References, Abandonment, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels, Angst and Humor, Archangels, Attraction, Baby Doesn't Like Starship, Banter, Boys In Love, Brian Johnson's VOICE, Castiel and Mental Health Issues, Castiel is Jimmy Novak, Dean Has Abandonment Issues, Declarations Of Love, Destiel - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Loneliness, Lonely Dean, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Physical Assault, Mentions of mental acuity slurs, Mentions of mental health slurs, Mentions of sexuality slurs, Minor Injuries, Not-Xmas in Lincoln NE, Past Anna Milton/Dean Winchester, Recovering Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Starship - Freeform, mentions of alternate universes, mentions of bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: NOTa holiday fic . . . but, nonetheless, in which a lonely, convenience store counter-jockey gets an “angel” for “X-Mess.” The title is all the author's doing, but the snarky quote-marks are allDean.





	An “Angel” for “X-Mess”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [vinniebatman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinniebatman/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: _**Not**_ really a holiday fic, despite the title. Symptoms of mental illness implied, but mental illness _diagnosis_ very much up in the air. Aftermath of implied physical assault/hate crime, and minor injury. Mentions of bullying and use of slurs/epithets regarding mental health and acuity, and sexuality, as well. Also: for once, I used a beta! A superlative one— _par excellance!_ —fellow scribbler, [Vinniebatman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vinniebatman)!

“Smoking is . . . not good for human lungs, Dean.”

 

Dean Winchester was standing out in front of the _Dew-Stop Convenience Shop_ just after his shift ended—smoking what would likely _not_ be the night’s last cigarette—blowing smoke up at the indifferent stars in their patch of crisp, Nebraska sky, when the low, worried-rasping tenor spoke.

 

Too damned tired to even be startled, Dean huffed the current lungful of smoke up toward the stars, cleared his throat, then took his precious time glancing down at the anxious presence lingering a few yards away. Studied the earnest, big-eyed dude watching him with solemn concern and, despite his own weariness, bent a crooked-friendly smile at him, as usual.

 

“Sure ain’t, Jim—uh, _Castiel_ ,” Dean agreed with the sanguinity of the beyond-drained, taking another long drag off his latest coffin nail. A few moments later, he was sending another plume of breath and death up into the atmosphere. His personal contribution to the new asshole humanity seemed Hell-bent on tearing the Ozone Layer. Then he let his tired gaze drift to the batshit, but sweet Novak-dude once more. “Don’t _you_ ever take it up, sweetheart, or I’ll tan your hide.”

 

“I won’t, Dean,” Jimmy promised solemnly, his wide, guileless, but _intense_ blue eyes holding Dean’s gaze steadily. As always. Such unhesitating earnestness, innocence, and _defenselessness_ was one of quite a few reasons why Dean hadn’t immediately written the dude off when he’d drifted into the _Shit-Stop_ , half-way through Dean’s very first, endless night-shift.

 

And most of the reasons Dean hadn’t written him off in the ten months since.

 

Dean’d always had an instinct for people: which were _cool_ , and which were _ain’t-shit wastes of skin,_ and all the boring, forgettable motherfuckers in-between. Jimmy Novak struck him as being firmly in the _cool_ -camp.

 

 _Figuratively_ speaking, of course. Dressed like _he_ tended to dress— _every-damn-night_ —in his square-bear button-down office togs of white shirt, forgettable tie, indifferent-dark pants, scuffed shoes, and a rumpled, tan trench coat, Jimmy Novak wasn’t the _average person’s_ idea of _obvious_ cool. Not on first or second or even twenty-ninth glance.

 

But he was a good egg, if a cracked one. And easy on the eyes in a pale-and-intense sort of way. Dean _liked_ the contrast of that messy-gorgeous dark hair against that near-bloodless complexion. And he _really_ liked Jimmy’s eyes, utterly-loony though they were.

 

(And though Dean _wasn’t_ above passing time imagining unexpectedly-stuck-in-close-quarters scenarios that involved finding out what Jimmy looked like under that claims adjustor-costume, he’d also developed a bit of a kink for imagining some up-close-and-personal time with them both _fully clothed_. Just shoved together in some tight space, pressed real close together, and staring into each other’s eyes. Even though Jimmy’s eyes were too naked and drowning-deep and even though _Dean’s_ best dog-paddling days were well-behind him. Just being close to someone who _meant something_ —even if Dean hadn’t decided what that _something_ was, yet—both of them smiling and _sure_ . . . and, yeah, _desperate_ for some body-heat and touch, even if it was through denim and cheap, synthetic poly-blends. . . .)

 

Now, those wide, brilliant-blue eyes, surrounded by faint, gray circles—as was disturbingly usual, of late—seemed almost washed out in the _stupid_ -bright fluorescent sign above the store and the _crazy_ -bright streetlamps spaced throughout the parking lot. Dean’s Impala was the only other car in the lot besides Manish’s ancient, green Subaru Forester and Lucinda’s new-to-her, orange-and-gray Smart-car.

 

But Dean wasn’t, for once, gazing with pride at Baby or huffing with towering contempt at his coworkers’ lame-mobiles. His eyes were locked on Jimmy’s paler-than-usual face. On Jimmy’s washed-out, weary-bright eyes. On Jimmy’s solemn, bitten-lipped mouth.

 

On the faint smear of _dried-fucking-blood_ under Jimmy’s nose.

 

“What in the actual _fuck_?” Dean growled, flicking his mostly-smoked coffin nail into the night. He clenched his fists automatically—more an attempt at controlling his sudden rage, rather than a mere telegraphing of it and imminent violence . . . so far—and stalked toward Jimmy. The other man took a few steps back, his eyes huger than ever, and Dean paused. It took half a second to realize that approaching with fists balled so tight they ached and prowling more than walking was probably less than reassuring. So, he forced himself to relax his hands and stride. He also faked a smile that didn’t feel at all kosher, but would have to do. “I mean, uh . . . heyya, Jim-Jams . . . ya get a nose-bleed, or somethin’?”

 

Jimmy blinked slowly, as if he didn’t quite comprehend the reason for the question. Or the question itself. Then he lifted his left hand—the back of which was covered in smeared, dried blood, as well—and wiped under his nose as unselfconsciously as a child.

 

“Ah. Hmm. Human bodies _are_ prey to such petty injuries, Dean,” Jimmy said, all absent and obvious evasion. Then his brow furrowed and his hand dropped to his side. “It was a brief inconvenience, only.”

 

Dean’s smile felt more like gritting his teeth to hold back a growl. Or maybe a roar. Either way, it’d be a sound that’d probably send this unusually skittish version of Jimmy Novak fleeing into the night.

 

And Jimmy was a _lot_ of things, but Dean had never known him to be _scared_.

 

Like so many marrow-deep _good_ and sweet people, Jimmy Novak wasn’t the sort of reckless-courageous that’d seemed to be a hallmark of the _Winchester_ -line, no. But such were Jimmy’s rose-colored Ray Bans that he just didn’t know when or _how_ to be afraid when it mattered and was _smart_. How to tell the difference between neurotic, whiny-little-bitch _reticence_ , and dirt-primal _survival instincts_.

 

Perhaps he’d ended up with a bloodied nose as consequence of that undiscriminating fearlessness. Or, perhaps, someone trusted in Jimmy’s life had gone to a place where even angels feared to tread. Or maybe _ought to have_ feared. Perhaps . . . perhaps Jimmy hadn’t been given _reason_ to be afraid until he was reeling from a knuckle-sammich.

 

And Dean knew—better than most—that sometimes, the _worst_ monsters weren’t the ones roaming the night, but the ones camping-out under the bed. . . .

 

Whichever was the case, it was more than enough to make Dean see fucking _red_. To make his bone-weary, dog-tired body thrum and buzz with energy and anger. With the need to connect his fist to some asshole’s face repeatedly for daring to _touch_ , never mind _hurt,_ Jimmy-fucking-Novak.

 

“Who was it?” Dean demanded, calm, but flat. Every vein attached to his skull felt as if it was throbbing and approaching nuclear. His eyeballs were pulsing like twin hearts and the sudden narrowing of those eyes—when Dean’s mind settled on a likely suspect for Jimmy’s poor nose—didn’t help matters. “Was it that fucker, Horst Stafford? Him and his little bitch-boy, wannabe- _Soprano_ , uh . . . Vince-something? Capistrano? Capiletta?”

 

Jimmy’s face went briefly, but tellingly blank. “Capitano. And the particulars of my bloody nose are unimportant. I’m fine, now.”

 

 _Bullshit_ , Dean thought, eyeing that nose and noticing that it was slightly swollen and a little red. Not much of either, though, because of poor follow-through on the part of Jimmy’s attackers and the late-fall chill.

 

That lack of follow-through and the chilly-ass weather did nothing to slow down Dean’s anger. He stepped closer to Jimmy, who seemed slight and vulnerable in his terrible cubicle couture, and with his messy hair and big, sincere blue eyes. They were of a height—Jimmy was less than an inch shorter than Dean—but Jimmy had _always_ seemed so much smaller.

 

Something probably everyone in this shitty, Lincoln suburb had noticed. _First_ damn thing, most likely, right after all the pretty. And all the crazy.

 

After all this time, here, once again, was yet another defenseless person Dean hadn’t kept safe— _had failed to protect—_ when it counted.

 

“Ah, _Jimmy_ , dude,” he sighed, suddenly tired again. Too tired to sustain the same level of visible anger, though he still felt its sluggish stirring in his blood and heart and gut. He hung his head for a few moments, thinking about how easy it’d be to pretend he _didn’t_ notice how jumpy and fucking _spooked_ Jimmy was . . . to pretend that he bought into Jimmy’s obvious “nose-bleed”-lie. . . .

 

 _Well, it’d be easy for about thirty-eight seconds_ , Dean thought, and knew _that_ to be far closer to truth. Of all the things Dean Winchester was an old-hand at lying to himself about, Jimmy Novak had never been one.

 

When Dean looked up, smirking ruefully and rubbing his right temple—where his usual work-headache was making a valiant comeback—Jimmy was scowling at him.

 

“I have explained repeatedly, Dean, that though my vessel _was_ called Jimmy Novak, before he gave himself over to a greater Will, _I_ am Castiel. An angel of—”

 

“—the Lord, yeah, yeah, my bad. _Sorry, Castiel_ , sometimes I forget,” Dean huffed out, torn between miserable laughter and a miserable groan. Jimmy nodded, solemn and harmless, and too damned _good_ for this world and everything on it. Dean had to repress another growl.

 

“It’s okay, Dean. I, too, forget things, sometimes. In that, you are not alone. You’re _never_ alone,” Jimmy promised, comforting and kind, as if _Dean_ was the one who had a right and reason to be upset.

 

“Uh-huh. So, ya gonna tell me who put their fuckin’ meat-hooks on an angel of the Lord and bloodied him up?” Though he’d rather have Jimmy’s _confirmation_ before beating the shit out of Frick and Fucked, he didn’t really need it. The fact that Dean had frequently seen those dirt-bags harass Jimmy in the _Shit-Stop_ parking lot—calling him such charming epithets as “’tard,” “nutcase,” and “fag,”—and seen them _twice_ go so far as to put hands on Jimmy and _shove_ him . . .  that was more than enough for Dean’s restless fists.

 

And for once, since _he_ wasn’t on-shift and _they_ weren’t on-premises, Dean could maybe hunt down and finally give those bully-bitches what-for. He’d have to leave Lincoln right after, of course, to keep the local pigs off his ass. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’d high-tailed it out of a jurisdiction to avoid jail-time.

 

“Might be I feel like returning the favor,” Dean said, all edgy-angry grin and determined-rumbling voice. “I’m no angel, but . . . I can smite with the best of ‘em.”

 

Jimmy’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “No. That is—no. You are a _good man_ , Dean. You walk a righteous path—” Jimmy paused when Dean snorted sarcastically, flushed, then went on “—you are brave. You fight cruelty and evil so tirelessly . . . in the only ways you know how. But in this case, those ways will result in troubles you won’t easily escape.”

 

“Well, now, I ain’t overly familiar with _easy_ , anyway. Wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a line-up. And I _ain’t_ tireless. I just make it _look_ that way, angel-face,” Dean drawled, winked, and dredged up a leering, over-the-top smirk for Jimmy. Again, it didn’t feel kosher, but it was what it was. And coming off a double-shift, the third in the past four days, Dean was just glad he was still upright fifteen minutes past clocking out.

 

Jimmy’s brows drew together in even greater concern. “In other worlds, you slay demons and monsters, and defend the innocent. Perhaps you will never do such things in _this world_ , but that does not make you any less of a champion. It does not make you any less _who you are_ ,” he said in that rasping-earnest _voice_. Dean shivered, and not just because of what was being said, but also because of the voice that was saying it. Despite that wild-crazy innocence that attended Jimmy like a protective cloak, that _voice_ was pure sex, even when it was spouting nonsense.

 

“And who am I?” Dean asked with indulgence bordering on condescension, while wondering if it was worth it to light another coffin nail. He never smoked in Baby, but he had a feeling that Jimmy was about to be off on a tear. And Dean was never _not_ in a mood to indulge his favorite crackpot.

 

“You are _Dean Winchester. You_ hunt things that hurt the innocent, and you live to defend what is right. _You_ are a rare and bright light in the darkness of those other worlds . . . the worlds where I . . . fit and make sense.” Jimmy blinked and smiled, sad and pretty and sweet. For a moment, Dean never wanted anything half so bad as he wanted to press his lips to that smile and feel it widen and part under his own. “Even in those worlds, only you and a few others even know or believe I’m an angel. But _your_ belief is all the faith and fire I will ever need.”

 

“Is that so?” Dean asked, managing to sound beneficent and amused, but not managing to suppress a shiver at the way Jimmy’s blue eyes seemed to burn at him as he finished that last sentence. And even though he couldn’t let himself acknowledge the way Jimmy’s words— _Jimmy’s faith in and admiration of him_ , misplaced though they were—made him feel, he also couldn’t deny what he was feeling in response. Couldn’t deny the strange, familiar-and-not _warmth_ that spread from his chest to all-points-outward like a brush-fire fueled by gratitude and goddamned _hope_.

 

Which was absolutely fucking ridiculous. Assuming there was such a thing as someone made for gratitude and hope, Dean had never qualified for the role. Not since he was four. That _Jimmy_ couldn’t spot such an obvious fact was just more proof he was completely looney-tunes. The only person crazier was _Dean,_ for letting himself go tiptoeing through those crazy tulips with Jimmy. For letting himself _feel_ that gratitude and hope, as if he had a right or a chance at either. For letting himself feel. . . .

 

. . . anything at all.

 

Despite Dean’s near-sneering attempt at patronizing and aloof cynicism, Jimmy moved closer by a few steps that put him square into Dean’s personal bubble. This close, he smelled like blood and sweat, tears and the night air. And even though his eyes still burned flame-blue, they were also soft and sad. His nose was still red and slightly swollen.

 

Dean had never wanted so badly to kill a couple of assholes with his bare hands as he did in that moment, and fuck Horst Stafford being the District Attorney’s son and Vince Capitano’s dad owning the biggest new and used car dealership in western Lancaster County. Dean’d put better-connected men in traction for far less than hurting someone he actually gave half a shit about.

 

He may have even put a few in the ground. Dean’d lost a lot of busy, bloody nights to booze-blackouts.

 

“That _is_ so, Dean Winchester,” Jimmy was saying in his low, pure sex-voice. It broke Dean out of his brooding and out in gooseflesh. It stood every hair of him on end. Both because he was turned on and because he just realized he honestly couldn’t remember ever telling Jimmy his last name.

 

Then, Jimmy was lifting his right hand and putting it over his own heart, as if he was about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Dean blinked and snorted, and decided even that wouldn’t be a far-fetched thing for Jimmy “Castiel” Novak to do, random-ass moment notwithstanding.

 

“In those worlds, I have a mission and so do you,” Jimmy went on, his voice lower and cracking just a bit. His gaze, however, was as steady as always. “And it is bigger and more important than either of our lives. Bigger, even, than all the things in our hearts.”

 

“Jim— _Castiel_ —” Dean began, his own voice also gone lower and rougher, as the strangest tingles and prickles raced up and down his spine. It was the kind of shuddering certainty that came not with having one’s near-certain future told, but one’s near-miss past unearthed.

 

“Hush, Dean,” Jimmy murmured, smiling again as he let his hand drift from its spot over his heart, to a new spot . . . right over Dean’s.

 

Normally, Dean’s reaction to that kind of unasked-for contact—even from a dude _this_ pretty—would be to remove the hand with a situational degree of vehemence, while smirking and saying something like: _“Lookin’s free. Touchin’ll cost ya.”_

 

And though Dean _did_ put his hand on Jimmy’s sharp-cold wrist, that was where the action stopped: more of a holding-on than a pushing-off.

 

When Dean could finally drag his wide-eyed gaze away from his callused, tanned hand on Jimmy’s snow-pale, elegant-smooth wrist, it was only to be caught in that big, sad gaze.

 

“There are _worlds_ out there, Dean Winchester. _So many worlds_ ,” pretty-crazy-sweet Jimmy Novak informed him with sober conviction. His hand over Dean’s heart was almost cold, but his touch still felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with tangible reality as Dean had always known it. Even the cool, melancholy blue of his eyes was as warm as sunshine, in spite of the three a.m.-chill. “Worlds where we protect what is good . . . and worlds where what we protect is . . . darker. Bloodier. Worlds where we are _together_ in the ways I always want . . . and more worlds, still, where we are not. But in _all_ of them, every last one—even the ones where I guard and guide you, but we never meet—I still love you. I will _always_ love you. In every world and every time. For _all_ times. _I love you_ , Dean. And I could not let _this world_ be another where I allow Duty or cowardice to keep me silent.”

 

Dean didn’t know how long he’d been gaping after Jimmy fell silent, only that eventually, the other man’s gaze dropped to where Dean’s hand still held his wrist.

 

“Jimmy,” Dean finally exhaled, not knowing what to say next, only that it had to be _something_. But Jimmy looked up at him again, his sweet-sad smile simply pained and brave, now. Hopeless.

 

Jimmy Novak without hope in those dreamy-cuckoo eyes was just . . . wrong. Almost agonizingly so.

 

“I know you believe that I’m insane. That you think I’m deluded and misguided and fragile. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am all those things and others, as well. I don’t . . . _I do not_ always remember things correctly: who I am, where I am, _why_ I am . . . sometimes and some days, the only thing I remember clearly, is you, and how much I love you. How deeply I will _always_ love you.” The right side of Jimmy’s mouth quirked, crooked and wry. “But I understand that _this_ world may be one where you do not . . . love me the way I always love you. But I _could not_ leave without telling you . . . without you knowing that in _this world_ , I have had no greater purpose, no greater joy, than providing you with whatever amusement or distraction I can. Even if it’s just the presence of an odd madman.”

 

Dean opened his mouth to speak again and nothing came out. Nothing at all. Not even an exhale. Jimmy’s smile settled into its usual slight, solemn curve, his eyes keen and intent on Dean’s face, as if storing up a detailed memory against a future without the real thing.

 

“Good night, Dean,” he finally said, nodding once before freeing his hand, then shoving both in the pockets of his trench coat and turning away. “Be well.”

 

And as Dean watched, Jimmy Novak crossed the cracked parking lot macadam, his hunched-defensive shuffle-walk nonetheless efficient and ground-devouring. In less than two minutes, he was lost to the shadowy realms of distance, trees, and night-in-the-‘burbs.

 

 _Dean watched Jimmy Novak disappear from his life forever_ , that soft, pleasant _Good night, Dean,_ as clear and final a _Good bye, Dean,_ as any he’d ever gotten. And a few he _hadn’t gotten_ , besides.

 

Only, it was _worse_ , somehow. Worse, for the accepted surrender and gentle despair in it.

 

“Well. I guess _that_ just happened,” Dean told himself with edgy exasperation, shaking his head and digging out his pack of Camels. They tasted like wood shavings and horseshit, but Dean only smoked them to help wean himself away from cigarettes he actually _enjoyed_.

 

He’d been smoking Camels since just after he’d met Jimmy, in fact, and was _still_ at a pack and a half per day.

 

 _Good to know I’m always the man with the goddamn plan_ , he thought, sneering without realizing he was. Then he snorted and wedged the second-last of this pack into the right corner of his mouth, while digging into his pocket for his brushed steel Zippo.

 

Fifty-eight seconds later, the coffin nail was a mostly-unsmoked, somersaulting cylinder descending from its flashy-showy parabolic vertex, on its way to the oily-dusty macadam. The cherry-end hissed instantly upon landing in a small puddle of unidentified liquid which thankfully was _not_ petroleum-based.

 

A few moments later, the door to the Impala slammed shut. Another few moments after that, the lot was less one _beaut_ of a classic, and plus one new set of laid-down rubber. The fading echo of a perfectly-tuned engine rumbled off into the night.

 

#

 

“So, you’re just gonna lay all that on me and, what? Skip town?”

 

Jimmy, hands still in the pockets of his trench coat, was making decent time down Loretta Drive. Dean inched Baby along nice and steady to keep pace. He was driving up the wrong side of the damn two-way street, but this late, the only people that’d take issue were the pigs.

 

Dean’d somehow managed to not only guess the right direction Jimmy had gone after disappearing into the night, but he’d also caught up with Jimmy before he made it to . . . wherever he called home for the moment. Thus, Dean cautiously liked his odds of not getting stopped by a bored sheriff’s deputy. For the moment.

 

“I have stayed here longer than I should,” Jimmy said heavily, eyes on the ground. “I let myself be distracted by dreams and neglected my reality.”

 

“Tell me somethin’ I _don’t_ know.” Dean snorted and glanced at the way ahead—still all-clear—then turned his best, charmingest smirk on Jimmy, who was still focused on the sidewalk. “Ya don’t gotta leave, ya know.”

 

“I _do_ gotta,” Jimmy disagreed, serious and earnest, and—so help him—Dean’s hair wasn’t the only part of him trying to stand on end. “My . . . that is, _Jimmy Novak’s_ brothers have been keeping tabs on me since I left home. Wherever I go, I never manage to escape their . . . watchful eyes. Normally, I do not remain in one place long enough for their spies and retainers to . . . collect information and evidence to fuel their theories about _Jimmy’s_ mental competence. Or lack thereof. But I was foolish this time, and stayed in one place longer than was advisable. I was tired of searching, and thought that for a change I might wait and have faith . . . and see what came of it.”

 

Dean didn’t ask what Jimmy had been searching and then waiting for, and Jimmy didn’t waste time belaboring the obvious.

 

“Uhh. Brothers, huh?” Dean grimaced and thought of his own brother . . . of String Bean-Sammy—all of fourteen years old last Dean saw of him—with his studious, earnest, do-good nature and serious blue eyes. Despite the fact they looked _nothing_ alike, when Dean had first met Jimmy, he’d _instantly_ been reminded of Sam in a way that’d hurt so bad . . . and ached so sweetly.

 

And Dean still wasn’t sure that similarity _wasn’t_ half of why he’d always been so drawn to—and invested in—sweet-pretty-certifiable Jimmy Novak.

 

“So, uh, how many brothers ya got?” Dean asked quickly, noting that he sounded like a nervous prom-date. One calculating his odds of catching a future beat-down for trying to go under-the-dress. “They a buncha dicks? Got some sorta grudge against you, ‘cause you’re the baby?”

 

Jimmy smiled a little, his profile gleaming like star-shine in the night. “I— _Jimmy_ is not the _baby_ , as you say. But he is _one_ of the youngest. And two of his oldest brothers are . . . concerned for his welfare. For many reasons, in recent years. But especially about his apparent lifestyle and life-choices. They . . . wish only what is best for the man they believe to still be their brother. Unfortunately, their views on that diverge considerably from my own.”

 

“Ah,” Dean said, nodding. Jimmy glanced at him, amused and a bit mischievous.

 

“Yes. They, like you, believe that Jimmy Novak is simply mad and that _Castiel, angel of the Lord_ , does not truly exist. Or, they _believe_ that they believe that. But just before I first fled their influence and control, I used to look into Michael’s eyes and see something . . . _something_. More than he’s telling or will ever tell. Sometimes, I think that in his own way, he’s madder than I am. Madder _and_ sadder. He has simply discovered the knack of hiding it well,” Jimmy mused, then shrugged dismissively. “I don’t suppose it matters. He and Raphael will arrive by midmorning. I can feel their imminence in the marrow of my bones. Also . . . Michael texted me to let me know their itinerary and flight-plan.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Dean sighed and frowned, then searched for some response to all that. He eventually settled on: “Family drama’s some fuckin’ _bullshit_ , dude.”

 

Jimmy blinked over at him again, surprised, then _smiled_ . . . brighter than the morning that’d bring his older brothers like two of the Four Horseman, trailing Jimmy’s personal Armageddon in their wake.

 

But Jimmy merely continued to smile at Dean as if at the _happiest_ happy thought. “Yes, it is,” was his wry reply. And Dean repressed a grin at this random flash of humor and irony, which Jimmy’s apparent innocence almost always belied.

 

“So . . . leavin’ town, huh?”

 

“Yes.” Jimmy’s smile faltered and faded, and he looked back down at the sidewalk and his boring, scuffed shoes. “I have a bus ticket in my pocket.”

 

“Yep. That’s one way of gettin’ outta Dodge, fast and easy.” Dean bit his lip and stared out at the night ahead. No oncoming traffic or nosy bacon, yet. Tonight was a lucky night, _already_ , and one with maybe a _little_ luck left over, besides. “Might be I could think of a better one, though. Faster, and less traceable. Less like slinkin’ away, alone and hunted, and more like . . . a roadtrip-movie.”

 

Dean felt Jimmy’s laser-blue gaze, lambent and so, so genuine, land on his profile. It was like he’d turned his face up to a summer sun after time spent in cranked-up air-conditioning.

 

“Might be . . . might be I’m interested in a change of venue, my own self.” Glancing up at Jimmy’s boyish, blameless face, it occurred to Dean that he didn’t even know how old the other man was. Legal to drink, yeah. But not by much, maybe. Dean, himself, wasn’t legal to drink for another few months. Not that he didn’t have several different I.D.s that claimed otherwise.

 

Not that he’d even been _carded_ since a year before Dad and Sammy disappeared. And he sure as _shit_ hadn’t been carded in the three years since . . . and not for lack of trying. . . .

 

“Dean?” Jimmy asked hesitantly, brow furrowed, as he stopped walking. Dean put the brakes on Baby and took a slow, deep breath. Reminded himself that what was past was past. That included mothers, fathers, brothers . . . _family_. It included all the bad habits Dean’d fallen into after being left on his own . . . all the bad habits he’d climbed his pathetic ass _out of_ over the course of the last eleven months.

 

Eleven consecutive months was the longest he’d ever lived anywhere since Lawrence, and the fire. Just a few weeks shy of a full year: both of being in Lincoln _and_ of staying sober. Hell, if he’d let himself get suckered into taking the Al-Anon route, he’d have been holding a one-year sobriety chip before Christmas.

 

 _Well, whoop-dee-shit and fucking huzzah_ , he thought, his entire body and being heavy with a weariness, despair, and loneliness that he suspected never got better over time . . . only less surprising.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Jimmy said again, gentle and worried, stepping closer to Baby. His big, blue eyes were all open compassion, and willingness to listen and be a comfort. Even if those things cost him a head-start on escaping his asshole brothers.

 

Jimmy Novak had no instinct for self-preservation. None at all. But where Dean was concerned, it was clear he had less than none. Like, negative-nine hundred and twelve, maybe.

 

That realization made Dean’s walled-off heart throb hard and insistent behind the cement-supports of his rib-cage. The ache of that throb was more than he’d allowed himself to feel of his heart since realizing that Dad and Sammy wouldn’t ever be coming back. That he’d never have any answers or reassurances or comfort . . . regarding their disappearance, or anything else.

 

That Dean had _nothing and no one_ — _was_ nothing and no one—and that if he stopped existing, there’d be no one to miss him or even remember he’d existed. Not a single, goddamned—

 

“So!” he barked, sudden, but firm and no-nonsense. Jimmy started, taking a step away . . . then taking that same step close once more, plus another small one for good measure. Dean’s resulting smile was hard, but it was a smile nonetheless. He aimed it at the empty, chilly night beyond his windshield. “I been in Lincoln for almost a year, now. Far as _I’m_ concerned, that’s almost-a-year too fuckin’ _long_. Though, I’ll allow it ain’t been _all_ bad. Until recently, I coulda named one _real_ good reason to hang around this Shitsburg city.” He shot a gawping Jimmy one more glance. But it was the considering once-over that glance turned into that shut Jimmy’s mouth, then turned him red under Dean’s keen assessment. “But I hear tell that reason’s pickin’ up stakes, an’ I figure . . . Hell, not like I’m tied to this place at all. Fuck the _Dew-Stop Convenience Shop_ , and _fuck Lincoln_. Plenty other places I can be overworked and poor and miserable. Places that at least have some sights worth seein’ and fun worth havin’. And I reckon I wouldn’t mind seein’ ‘em and havin’ ‘em with some agreeable company.”

 

Jimmy was still staring at him, all wide-eyed shock and confusion. Finally, he shook his head and blinked those pretty eyes rapidly. “I . . . don’t . . . follow?”

 

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, speaking without thinking first. “Good thing you’re _so_ pretty, sweetness, ‘cause you _sure_ ain’t quick on the uptake, tonight.” Chuckling, he turned and leaned over across Baby’s passenger seat, reaching for and opening the door with a grunt. Then, he leaned back out the driver’s side window. Jimmy was still staring and looking lost.

 

“You . . . think I’m pretty,” he said, small and wary, but not quite a question. More of a clarification.

 

Flushed, flustered, and utterly without his customary chill under that guileless-hopeful-intent stare, Dean cleared his throat. “I . . . just . . . get in the goddamn _car_ , Cas.”

 

It came out gruff and stammering, and also without thinking. As did the nervous, self-conscious, slightly-doofy smile that followed it as both apology for and leavening of the harsh tone. But since Jimmy’s response to it was a _new_ smile that was big and blinding, like a whole sky full of suns, Dean didn’t take himself to task much.

 

“You . . . called me _Cas_ ,” Jimmy murmured, his voice shaking and choked—almost breaking—and his eyes shining bright with what Dean knew were tears. His sunny smile was beatific, now . . . more beautiful than ever. “In all the _best_ worlds . . . you call me _Cas_.”

 

Dean looked down for a few moments, kicking himself for humoring a crazy dude when he should be trying to either sane-up said dude, or just leaving him the Hell alone. But even though calling Jimmy by his _full_ “angel”-name was stupid, cruel, and tasted odd . . . calling him _Cas_ , even though it had been a first time-slip, had felt right. Weirdly, _perfectly_ so.

 

“Yeah, well,” Dean mumbled, clearing his throat again and blushing. Smiling, too, his own damn self, because _how could he not_ , with Jimmy beaming at him like he was the Second Coming? “’Long as it’s somethin’ you’ll answer to, it’s no skin off my shin what name you wear.”

 

And by the time Jimmy pulled the passenger door shut and was settled into the seat—still smiling and taking in Baby with wide, impressed eyes—Dean was full-on grinning like an idjit.

 

“I have _missed_ this car,” Jimmy said with fond approval, running his right-hand fingertips across the closed glove box and glancing over his shoulder with a tiny, preoccupied quirk of his lips. “Especially the back seat.”

 

Dean’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “Uhhh . . . whuh? _What?_ ”

 

“Though there _is_ something to be said for riding shotgun,” Jimmy decided, all coy satisfaction and direct blue gaze. Dean _had_ to look away to re-catch both breath and equilibrium.

 

That gaze’d had a way of breaking Dean down—shattering him like a cannonball to a popsicle stick-cabin—from the very first time their eyes had ever met.

 

But then, that gaze _also_ built him right-the-fuck-back-up. In some strange way, it both weakened and strengthened him in bits and pieces, and in whole. It was a gaze in which Dean _and_ his addictive tendencies could easily get used to being lost.

 

“Right. Ah . . . right. So, you, uh . . . you got anything back at your . . . wherever you’re stayin’? Any stuff you wanna take with you to . . . wherever we’re goin’?” he asked when he could once more meet those shining, hopeful, serene eyes. They were all adoration and admiration, and the kind of appreciation and _affection_ that’d probably made better men than _Dean-fucking-Winchester_ feel about ten thousand feet tall. “’Cause . . . we can stop, uh . . . or not. Whatever you want.”

 

Jimmy shook his head twice and continued to gaze at Dean as if he’d hung the moon. “No, Dean. For the first time in my life I have everything I have ever wanted right here with me.”

 

Dean’s face went up like a five alarm-fire and he looked down at the steering wheel, swallowing and trying not to grin and guffaw like a damn rube. “Dude, you . . . you can’t just go pullin’ out that kinda stuff when I ain’t _prepared_! And for _damn-sure not_ while I’m behind the wheel!”

 

He didn’t look up for nearly a minute during which he could feel Jimmy’s warm, amused regard like the pure, gentle light of a galaxy of stars.

 

“Is there anything at _your_ residence which you’d like to bring with us, Dean?” Jimmy asked kindly, like a mom asking her brat if he’d used the potty before they set off on a car-trip. But Dean was just grateful that Jimmy hadn’t pursued their previous topic of discussion, so he let the mother-henning pass. He cleared his throat again and shrugged nonchalantly.

 

“Got a few things, yeah,” he said, thinking of the “amulet” Sammy’d made for him about nine jillion forevers ago, when they were little. Of dad’s old leather jacket. Of the single framed photo of his mother that he possessed. Of the few souvenirs of his rolling stone-existence that he’d deemed worth holding on to. “But I don’t accumulate stuff. I can be packed and ready to roll in less than ten.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

When Dean looked up curiously, the right side of his mouth crooked and his lips twitching, it was to catch the strangest expression on Jimmy’s innocent face, half-wistful and half- _hungry_. He was staring at Dean’s mouth with unhidden interest.

 

“Uh, see somethin’ ya like, angel-face?”

 

“Yes. _You_ ,” Jimmy added, as if Dean might not have guessed. His stare drifted to Dean’s rolling eyes, and his smile widened. Then he was studying Dean’s _mouth_ again with that eerie focus. “You are _very_ beautiful, Dean. Every atom of you. But especially your mouth.”

 

“Uh . . . huh.” Dean quirked his bestest, sexiest smirk. The one that made the dimples pop and the green of his eyes seem to flicker like soul-semaphore. “You’re ‘ _specially_ fond of my _mouth_ -atoms, huh?”

 

“Indeed. Whenever I see your mouth, I think of all the worlds in which I’ve kissed you and you’ve kissed me back. I think of all the worlds in which we have _yet_ to kiss . . . but hopefully will.” Flushing, Jimmy sighed and met Dean’s eyes once more. Jimmy’s were bright with yearning and frustration and determination. “I think of worlds where you have called _me_ your One True God, and worshiped me with your lips and tongue. With the adoration in your eyes and the love in your hands. _The things I think of when I look at you_ , Dean Winchester. . . .”

 

Hot, despite Baby’s open windows and the general chill of the season, Dean swallowed again, just once . . . but it was audible. The idea of finding religion in Jimmy Novak’s arms—in _Jimmy Novak_ —was temptation that’d make a saint say, _Jesus, who?_ Never mind an indiscriminate apostate like Dean Winchester.

 

“Listen, ah, Jimmy,” he began and laughed, winded and seriously turned-on. “Dude, ya can’t . . . I mean . . . _seriously_. You _can’t_ say stuff like that when I’m behind the wheel, ‘less you want me to wreck Baby!”

 

“I would be willing to make it worth your while to pull over, and allow me to assist you in taking any issues that pop up firmly in hand.”

 

Dean’s jaw dropped, and he did a double-take over at Jimmy, who was smiling his most absent, loopy-sweet smile out the windshield. Which was a good thing, because even a brief glance at Dean’d probably result in him noticing the sudden rager trying to poke a hole through Dean’s obviously distended fly.

 

“Also,” Jimmy went on with the sort of tone and _weight_ that made Dean shiver, and nearly groan, “it is _Castiel_. Or _Cas_. In all the worlds where you . . . love me back, _Cas_ is who I am to you. To be so in _this world_ , as well, would please me immeasurably, Dean.”

 

Dean swallowed around a recurring lump in his throat and didn’t dare to move. Not even to adjust his jeans and work-shirt so his damn, don’t-play-dead dick was less noticeable. “Would it, now?”

 

The look Jimmy darted him was almost hooded and definitely heated. “ _Immeasurably_ ,” the other man reiterated, his voice darker and smoother than aged whiskey. Dean gulped and smirked, aiming his eyes back at the road ahead, as ever. It took him a good few moments to realize that his crappy studio apartment was in the opposite direction of the bus station.

 

“Cas-Stee-EL, huh? What in the Hell kinda name’s that, _anyway_? _Been_ wonderin’ . . . wait! It’s an _angel_ -name, right?” Dean barked another laugh, this one slightly hysterical, but for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on. Things were moving too fast, but also too slow. He knew far too much and yet . . . he didn’t know nearly enough. And never would, if lifelong trends were to continue. “What’s it mean? _Glory to God_? _Sword of the Lord_? _Holy Hand-Grenade_?”

 

“In _your_ mouth, it means nothing less than love,” Jimmy said simply, momentarily melancholy and a million miles—a _trillion universes_ —away. “In _some_ worlds, that is.”

 

 _Of course_ , Dean thought, feeling angry, sad, and cheated because in _this world_ . . . he wasn’t a _champion. Wasn’t_ the best-beloved of an angel. He was a goddamn _counter-jockey_ at the latest of a laundry-list of shitty convenience stores and gas stations.

 

Out loud, he gritted a casual: “Of course.”

 

“In the worlds that matter _most_ , my name and its meaning matter only in _your_ mouth, Dean. On _your_ lips,” Jimmy murmured, that wistfulness and hunger back in full force, making his voice tremble and waver. “Said in _your voice_ whenever you have need of or desire for me.”

 

Flushed, Dean nodded, ignoring the unequivocal layers of meaning placed on the words _need_ and _desire._ One thing he couldn’t quite ignore was his system-wide _response_ to those layers of meaning: from heart and soul, to brain and balls.

 

He just hoped Jimmy didn’t look down for a good, long while. Or possibly ever, since _this rager_ had ridiculous staying-power.

 

And he _really_ hoped he, himself, didn’t park Baby in a tree on their way out of fucking Lincoln. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d started a road-trip with a persistent and nigh unsinkable hard-on. But he had a feeling this’d be the most trying. Especially with those guileless-hot eyes staring at him and . . . expecting. Wanting. _Needing_.

 

“Right,” he rumbled, fighting that nervous, damned idjit-grin. It was a no-win battle, but at least he made the effort. Sometimes, effort made was all a man had. He released his right hand’s strangle-hold on Baby’s wheel and dropped it to the stick. “Alright.”

 

Jimmy— _Castiel_ —leveled that blissed-out, breathtaking smile at Dean. It seemed to glow so bright, it was like the sun rising in Baby. Dean didn’t even have to be looking at the other man straight-on to feel that glowing regard. Though he sure as shit _did_ look, after a half-hearted fight not to.

 

Of course, _that_ smile drew his own. Not the _sexy_ one, or even the goony idjit-grin that made Dean feel like he’d turned into a _super_ -nerdy thirteen-years-old with a crush on a cute little mathlete.

 

This smile felt naked and way more telling—way more honest and _trusting_ —than Dean had been with anyone in years.

 

The bitch of it was, Dean both knew and _didn’t care_ that he was throwing away his chill over a nice, nice- _looking_ lunatic whom he barely knew. He wore that sincere smile until he found himself gawping down at the pale, graceful-tapering hand that’d lighted gently, then _firmly_ on his knee.

 

Firmly, _inclining inward_ on his knee, with elegant fingers pressing in against Dean’s inseam, and a tender thumb stroking slow circles around Dean’s knobby patella.

 

After moment of perfect stillness and realization, Dean’s entire body went haywire in a way it never had before—at least not to _this_ degree of intensity. Even as most of his body tried to relax, it also tried to tense in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. The sort of unambitious hard-on he almost always got when Jimmy hung around for long enough, had long since lost every mitigating drop of _un_ -.

 

Dean’s body tingled and shook, and froze and burn, at turns and all at once. A sound escaped him, like the low, desperate groan of a dying elk or something, and his eyes fluttered shut for a few moments. He simply savored the warmth of Jimmy’s hand and touch, seeping bone- and ligament-deep. He wanted that hand to be everywhere and _go_ everywhere. And he wanted it to never, _ever_ leave that exact spot. That warm-reassuring, hot-arousing, riling- _settling_ spot that Dean had always and _would always_ —thanks to his first and only love—associate with being known and accepted and wanted . . . _welcomed_ by someone he could trust even without fully understanding why.

 

In his chest, the slightly accelerated beat of his heart wasn’t remotely _slight_ anymore.

 

‘Cause there was just no way in Hell that _Cas-Stee-EL_ , even in the damned dark of pre-dawn, didn’t notice Dean’s dick finding Magnetic North less than a foot from his bold and distracting hand. And no way— _no . . . fucking . . . way_ —that some random- and crazy-ass lunatic could know that Dean had a . . . knee-thing.

 

A _serious_ knee-thing.

 

The kind of knee-thing that even Dean, himself, only knew about because Anna Marisa Milton had _stumbled_ across it. It hadn't been an erogenous-zone, so much as the quickest way to make Dean stammer and blush, and go all heart-eyes. In a moment of absent fondness, Anna had discovered one of Dean’s Achilles’ heels. And she’d also been sweet enough—or cruel enough—to make frequent use of it for as long as John Winchester had been able to bear settling himself and his boys in Kentucky.

 

It really _hadn’t been_ an erogenous-zone, so much as a _comfort_ -zone, the knee-thing. And yet _now_ . . . Dean was responding to it like it was both. Which made no sense whatsoever, because how could a single touch be a turn-on _and_ cool-down? How could it rev his engine and cool his jets at the same time? Make his heart race and his soul dance, but make his mind certain and calm and _still_? Make him want to laugh and cry and come? Make the very core of him shake and tremble and clench, like it was trying its damnedest to hold on to the most precious thing ever . . . even as his body just wanted to get down, get off, and be rocked to sleep?

 

How could Jimmy know _just_ how to touch him? How did _Jimmy’s touch_ , so sure and _knowing_ , somehow eclipse the memory of _Anna Milton’s touch_?

 

Just . . . _how_?

 

None of it made any goddamned rational sense. And after an eternity of staring at that hand, and clocking every upward twitch of his dick and every aching-sweet throb of the idjit-muscle in his chest, he gawped back at those upper-atmo eyes. Not far below them was a quirky almost-smirk.

 

“Okie-dokie, then, ahhh . . . buckle up.” Dean had meant it to sound worldly and cavalier, but instead it sounded cautioning and overwhelmed. And aimed entirely at himself.

 

“Whatever you say, Dean _,_ ” _Cas-Stee-EL_ said, husky and breathless. And still so goddamned _hungry and_ _hopeful_. Smoldering and _pure_ in his rock-bottom guilelessness.

 

Gazing into those big-pretty eyes and thrumming under that not-so-innocent hand, Dean decided he’d be happy to call _Cas-Stee—Cas_ a tuna-on-rye, if he wanted. Just as long as he kept looking at Dean as if seeing his dearest wish and fondest dream come impossibly true.

 

 _Goddamn_ , Dean thought, laughing at himself for being a fool. For being half in-love already, and with a crazy _dude_ , no less. _Crazy_ -crazy . . . but also _crazy_ -pretty and crazy- _sweet_.

 

“Alright, then!” Dean declared after Cas had buckled-in singlehandedly, without looking away from Dean to do so or shifting the pressure of his hand on Dean’s knee. That knee, along with Dean’s face, dick, and balls, was hot enough to rate on the Kelvin-scale.

 

He switched gears and his best girl purred like the kitten she was. Intense feelings of rightness and contentedness—of disaster averted and happiness secured—seemed to settle Dean’s soul. Settle _into it_. He took a moment to send a brief prayer out to any other listening angels or deities nearby. He really _didn’t_ want to end up parking Baby in a tree on the way to his place or out of town.

 

“Time to shag ass,” Dean said softly, that honest smile twitching his lips as he thought not of the journey so far, but the journey to come. The first journey in so long that he _wouldn’t_ be undertaking alone. . . .

 

At his side, Cas glowed and beamed, and somehow became _everything_. Became _Dean’s_ everything—even after so brief an acquaintance—only _partly_ because, for so long, Dean hadn’t had an _anything_.

 

“Merry X-Mas, Dean,” Cas said—actually said _EX-Mas_ —with utter contentment. Dean grinned, and didn’t even correct the other man, never mind that _Thanksgiving_ was still most of a month away. He just rolled with whatever the sweet-pretty- _everything_ loon said, because _there_ was a decision that never got anyone into trouble, right?

 

 _Riiiiiight_.

 

He chuckled. “Yeah. Merry, uh, _X-Mess_ to you, too, Cas.”

 

A moment later, Cas’ hand strayed from Dean’s knee, toward the radio. Then, AC/DC’s _For Those About to Rock_ was blaring almost at full volume. Instantly nodding along, Dean near-about had a heart attack when, half a minute later, Baby was filled with something radically different and perniciously not-cool.

 

[ _Marconi plays the mamba,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

[ _Listen to the radio._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

[ _Don't you remember_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

[ _We built this city,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

[ _We built this city_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

[ _On rock and roll. . . ?_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1b8AhIsSYQ)

 

“ _What the fuck?_ ” Dean complained glaring over at Cas, who looked confused and startled, his dark brows high on his forehead, his eyes saucer-wide. His hand fell away from the radio dials.

 

“It’s _We Built This City_ ,” he said in explanation. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah, I know _what_ it is, Professor Obvious. It’s _why_ I’m hearin’ that devil-damned _caterwaulin’_ —traumatizin’ my innocent Impala, by the way—that’s throwin’ me!”

 

Cas blinked, frowned, then shook his head. “Jefferson Starship built a city on rock-and-roll, Dean,” he offered patiently, as if that was any kind of excuse for the atrocity being wreaked on Baby’s and Dean’s poor ears.

 

“Starship didn’t build _shit_. Don’t listen to him, Baby-girl. He’s just cray-cray,” Dean added consolingly to Baby, but still glaring at Cas, who sighed.

 

“But, Dean, the song _clearly_ states—”

 

“Cas, dude, I’m ‘bout to kick you outta Baby,” Dean growled, glowering as he changed the station right back to where he and Baby _liked it_. Brian Johnson’s _beautiful_ , Heavenly choir-wail filled the Impala once more. Sighing with relief as the Starship-fueled tension seeped out of his body and soul, he patted the dash soothingly. “It’s okay, I got ya. Daddy won’t _ever_ let the bad man near your FM dial again, Baby-girl. _Ever_.”

 

“Really, Dean—”

 

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Dean said, tender but immovable. He leveled a warm, but stern look at Cas, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes and a lofty expression. His pretty mouth was pursed, as if to say something huffy. Dean cranked up the sexiest smirk of them _all_ , until that look of righteous prissiness faltered. “ _Driver_ picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. ‘Kay?”

 

“I . . . o-of course, Dean. . . .” now, those eyes were wide and dilated, that mouth a little slack and a little open. Completely-fucking- _distracting_. For the first time since Dean had happily tossed away his v-card at fourteen, the idea of kissing someone— _just_ kissing someone—for hours, or even ten perfect, blue-balled minutes, was more than routine foreplay to be raced through. It was fucking _goals_.

 

Not that Dean couldn’t easily think of a bunch of _other_ fun things to do with, on, and in that candy-sweet, probably virginal mouth. . . .

 

“Yeah . . . knew you’d catch on quick, angel-face.” He blew Cas a kiss after a breathless, flustered laugh. Then he patted Baby’s dash again. “See, Baby? He ain’t _all_ bad. Daddy loves you and you can rest easy, again.”

 

And if Cas sniffed, and rolled those pretty eyes in exasperation—and muttered something that sounded like, but couldn’t _possibly_ be _ass-butt_ —it was still _fond_ exasperation. Plus, it didn’t stop his hand from settling on Dean’s knee once more, like it’d never belonged anywhere else.

 

For once—and for however long—life was . . . _good_.

 

With one hand on the stick, one on the wheel—and a welcome _third_ saying _how-do!_ to an erogenous zone Dean would deny having to his dying day—Dean smirked. Aimed his gaze on the road ahead and hung a U-y.

 

 _My place, first. Then into the sunrise, or bust. Me and Cas. Together_ , he thought, liking the sound of that more and more with every passing nanosecond. _Me and Cas, together against the fucking_ world.

 

Course and destination set, Dean, Cas, and Baby peeled out into the night, and into their near-certain future.

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand, that’s my holiday Writer's Block Exchange Fic for the wonderful [PsychoticMidds](http://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoticmidds)! Word count-wise, it’s nine times longer than it should be, Bear, but I nonetheless hope you enjoyed it <3
> 
> (Also, I have headcanons for this 'verse for DAYS. Should you want a continuation, just give me the word. Hell, I might just write a follow-up and/or prequel, anyway.)
> 
> And massive thanks for my AMAZEBALLS beta, [Vinniebatman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vinniebatman). If my Castiel-characterization/insight is any good, it’s likely all the bits for which Veebs took the time to suggest fixes. I adopted some of those fixes whole-cloth, so . . . this fic was a two person-job and until Veebs, I was a writer short. Thank you, my friend <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Bah! Tumble-Bug!](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)


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